


How to Jump (and Not Die on the Way Down)

by BeeBeMe



Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: & its nasty side-effects, Emetophobia, M/M, Vomiting, Whump, Whumptober 2020, radiation poisoning, the vomit's not graphic but it's there so watch out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:29:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26933638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeeBeMe/pseuds/BeeBeMe
Summary: The Wasteland's no place to fall in love. Jacob was new, so he got a free pass, but Deacon really should have known better.
Relationships: Deacon & Sole Survivor (Fallout), Deacon/Male Sole Survivor, Deacon/Sole Survivor (Fallout)
Series: The Wasteland's a Rough Place (Fallout Whumptober 2020) [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951108
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. They Look so Pretty When They Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober 2020 day 10: They Look so Pretty When They Bleed (Internal Bleeding/Blood Loss). I guess this could also count as day 7 too? Idk lol.
> 
> Enjoy!

You would think being an engineer would make him good at math. Usually, you’d be right.

Lab math is an irredeemable bitch, however, and Deacon trusted him to get it right. He fucked up. There wasn’t enough Rad-X to get them out of the Glowing Sea. They were down to three bottles - three _fucking_ bottles between the two of them with at least a few miles to go. Sixty rads per minute, going at the rate they were-

One of them was going to die, and it sure as fuck wasn’t going to be Deacon.

Jacob’s dumb ass was the only reason Deacon was out here in the first place. He could have taken Hancock or Valentine, but no. Jacob was afraid, and Deacon made him less afraid, so the squishy part of his brain (or his heart, though he wasn’t ready to admit that at the moment) told him it was a logical decision. He was a coward - a reliant, needy coward who selfishly put his best friend in danger and didn’t know how to do _math._

Fucking idiot. It might have been funny if he wasn’t going to die.

Being around Deacon had taught him a lot of shit. The fine art of subterfuge, how to breathe without fucking up his aim when using a sniper rifle, how to silver-tongue with the best of them. How to hide shit, how to keep people guessing, how to stand up for his beliefs, and do something about them. He knew how to lie now, something he was proudly shit at before the bombs dropped. Deacon changed that, just like how he changed pretty much everything else.

Jacob didn’t want to lie to Deacon. He thought he’d been doing a good job pretending to take the Rad-X. It worked the first time - or, at least he thought it worked. Deacon didn’t protest as Jacob upped their pace - he was good like that. Even with all the shit he touted about not trusting anyone, Deacon trusted Jacob without a word edgewise. Betraying that trust hurt, but letting him die would hurt more.

Jacob kept his finger in the way of the pills as he tipped the bottle back and forced himself to not look at Deacon. Anywhere but him. He didn’t catch the crinkle of Deacon’s brows or the tightening at the corner of his lips. The confusion, the suspicion, and, finally, acceptance. Because Jacob wouldn’t lie to him, especially when there wasn’t anything to lie about.

The first missed dose made him ache. It started in his head, a growing pounding behind his eyes. It felt like sandpaper against his brain - slowly moving back and forth with every quickened step and shuddering breath. It was hard to tell what was radiation poisoning and what was panic because he _was_ panicking. Despite all his shit-talk and showboating, he was fucking _terrified_ of dying, especially like this.

Five minutes passed. Time for the next dose. Jacob pressed the rad-x bottle into Deacon’s hand before turning to his own. Take a couple pills out - keep them in the same hand as the lid. Mimic tossing them back and put the lid (along with the pills) back on the bottle. Jacob went through the motions, pinky wrapped around the powdery pills, swallowed, put his hand over the bottle - just to find Deacon’s spindly fingers wrapped around his wrist. Before he knew it, the spy had peeled his fingers back and revealed the pills still in his hand. 

Even with his eyes covered by those damn sunglasses, the expression on Deacon’s face _hurt._ Confusion, realization, betrayal. “Fixer, what the _fuck?_ ”

Jacob felt the sting in the corner of his eyes. Panic and guilt and _what the fuck was he supposed to say?_

“I’m sorry.” That would have to be enough. 

Apparently, it wasn’t. Calloused fingers plucked the pills from his palm and shoved them towards his mouth. Jacob turned away, casting his eyes towards the ground. Confusion made Deacon’s grip around his wrist tighten. “What the hell? Did you hit your head or something? You _need_ to take these or you’ll _die_. What were you thinking-?”

“I messed up,” Jacob blurted out, the confession bitter on his tongue. “I’m sorry. It- it must’ve- it’s not enough, we don’t have enough, and it was _my_ mistake and-” He’s almost hyperventilating, but that only makes his stomach turn more. Each heave of his diaphragm makes something in him ache until the nausea peaks.

There’s enough time to turn around and hunch over himself. When he vomits, there’s entirely too much blood. Deacon’s gone quiet, his other hand on his back while the opposite still grips Jacob’s wrist. It feels like ages before Jacob can look back up at his friend, and there are only two words on his tongue.

“I’m _sorry_.”

Deacon moves faster than Jacob thought him possible, but one moment he’s behind him and the next he’s in front. His fingers dig into the hinge of his jaw and Jacob’s got no other choice than to open. He’s past the point of struggling at this point, frozen in terror and guilt. The powdery pills hit the back of his throat and it’s simple reflex to swallow, though he wants to protest. They settle like stones and he’s painfully aware of their presence. His stomach gives another lurch.

Deacon keeps a hand on him even as he reaches for Jacob’s backpack. He knows what he’ll find in there - three bottles, just enough to get one of them out scot-free. Not enough for both of them. Deacon curses under his breath. A distant part of Jacob’s brain realizes that the only other time he seemed this genuinely upset was back at the Switchboard as they stood over Tommy Whisper’s body. 

Jacob always knew that Deliverer should have gone with Deacon. At least one thing will be made right by this. 

Again, a wave of nausea hits him. This time it sends him to his knees, a low keen coming from the back of his throat. The pills hadn’t had enough time to dissolve, let alone get absorbed - if he has enough intestinal lining to absorb anything at this point. Bile rises in the back of his throat and he tries to keep it down, but it’s a losing fight from the start. 

More blood now, along with a choked sob because he’s _terrified_ and he doesn't want to die here-

The world spins. There’s an arm under the crook of his knees and another around his shoulders. His head falls against something warm, and when he looks up he can see behind Deacon’s sunglasses. He can’t tell if it’s the ambient light or if it’s Deacon’s actual eye color, but they look green. They’re moving - Deacon’s running - and it might be a problem with his vision, but there might be a tear track dribbling down his cheek.

 _”I’m sorry,”_ he whispers again, just in case Deacon didn’t hear him the first time. He _has_ to know. Jacob could have sworn that he felt Deacon’s arm tighten just a fraction. Jacob made him cry, and that hurts even more than the dull throb in his abdomen. ”I’m _sorry-”_

“Stop,” the word comes out with Deacon’s next pant. Jacob’s not big by any measure - Deacon’s got a good foot on him, a fact that’s easily and often exploited - but the terrain’s rough and the air’s thick. “You can apologise when you’re okay, and you _are gonna apologize._ Hiding that from me, what the hell Fixer-” Deacon stumbles, foot catching on a rock, and he comes close to dumping Jacob. Gravity is defeated, but the movement sends Jacob’s world spinning and his stomach along with it. He screws his eyes shut, focusing on stomping the dizzyness down and on not vomiting -

_There’s a time, way back when he was younger and living out west, that he and his family would go to this quaint little seaside town. The pacific ocean would swallow the sun and the town would come to life. Neon lights would color the air. Bonfires on the beach itself lit up like stars along the boardwalk. Open-air bars would serve sweet-smelling drinks, hawkers would sell their themed t-shirts and trinkets._

_And, in the center of it all, the merry-go-round would flash and spin. As a child, it was his favorite. There was this one, cotton-candy blue horse that he_ had _to take a ride on every time they spent more than five minutes in town. The older kids would want to go on the tilt-a-whirl or bumper cars, but he’d spend every minute on his plastic horse, pirouetting as the crowd broke around the ride. Smiling faces, the smell of dough in the air, a pleasant chill creeping up his fingertips. He’d ride until he got dizzy then spend the next half-hour trying to teach himself how to walk again -_

 _”Jacob!_ Deacon doesn't use his name as a general rule, not that he had anything to lose by the Institute learning his real name. _’An exercise in discretion, for when you work with people who actually have lives,’_ Deacon had said, a jaunty smile on his lips as he crossed his arms and leaned against one of the coffins in the crypt. _’S’ better to get used to it now, before, y’know-’_

Deacon’s looking at him now, lips opening and closing as he speaks instead of set in a smile. The fact that Jacob can’t hear him and that the eerie green tint of the Glowing Sea had been replaced by bright sunlight is lost on him. The darkness of Deacon’s sunglasses, knowing the eyes that sat just behind them, was drawing him in. He’s reminded of sitting at the end of the pier, still dizzy, looking out into the endless, dark sea, and feeling the urge to jump.

There’s a prick at the crook of his arm, and the darkness gets a little darker. _He puts his hands out, feeling the wind on his sides and in his hair._

The ceiling disappears until all that’s left is fair skin and dark ovals. He’s not sure who speaks.

_”I love you.”_

_And he jumps_


	2. I Think I've Broken Something

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Whumptober Day 12: I Think I've Broken Something (Broken Trust)
> 
> Uhhhhhg, I really don't like how this one turned out, but whatever! Both chapters in this work are going to be used for a larger Deacon/Jacob fic, whenever I get around to writing it. Hopefully, after BBMAP is done, but, knowing me, probably not lol.

“I’m a synth.”

The snort is so forceful it makes Jacob fear that he’s broken something. The sound’s entirely out of place here among the crumbling buildings in the outskirts of Boston. Laughter isn’t something that this lonely air had heard in a long, long time. Leave it to Deacon to say some stupid shit and unwittingly break the centuries-old doom and gloom. Jacob risks taking his eyes off of the cluttered path before them to look over his shoulder, meeting the other man’s toothy smile with one of his own. “You’re so full of shit, Deacon.”

“I’m serious! Jeez, here I am tryin’ to tell you something important, and you call me - _me!_ \- a liar. I’m hurt, Fixer, I really am,” Deacon drawls, shoulders lose and hands gesturing wildly. Jacob - oh wait, _Fixer_ \- can’t help but track one of those hands as it glides through the air. Roving eyes take in those long, calloused fingers and he gets the illogical urge to catch them in one of his own and just… hold them. Nothing else. Just his palm against Deacon’s, maybe with their fingers intertwined.

...Ew, gross. He wasn’t a 16 year old, touch-starved virgin, what the fuck.

No, he was 23 - there was a difference.

He must have been staring for too long. One of the hands in question suddenly jerks to the left, then back to the right. Jacob’s eyes flick to follow without his consent before he can forcibly yank them up to catch Deacon’s self-satisfied smirk. Asshole. Pointedly, he turns forward again and keeps his eyes on the road even as he replies.

“And I’m trying to tell you that shit’ll start coming out of your ears if you keep on tellin’ low-brow bullshit like that. I can’t tell if i should be insulted or not, knowin’ that you’re still trying to catch me with such an obvious fib. Honestly, Deeks, did you really-”

“Fixer.”

And ain’t that neat, how one little word said in that one little way could get his stomach to fall out his ass and fill the remaining void with so much dread. If he wasn’t really certain that it was, in fact, Deacon behind him, he might have thought that another person altogether had spoken. Had the spy ever sounded so firm and genuine? It was always jokes and playful flirting and friendly teasing with him, not whatever the hell just came out of his mouth. Hesitantly, Jacob looked back. The smile was gone, skin pinched just below his sunglasses. 

Fuck. He was serious.

“I’m serious.”

_Fuck._

Jacob swallows, licks his lips, looks down from Deacon’s face, trying to wrangle his remaining brain cells into formulating a response to one of the biggest bombshells that has ever been dropped on him, _including the nuke._ It isn’t that he’s a synth - Valentine’s a great guy and Glory’s cool as fuck. Oh, and the fact that he regularly endangers his own life to save synths in his free-time, no biggie. In other words, it definitely isn’t the synth thing.

“Why’re you telling me?” His mouth figures it out before his mind, and still he finds the question stupid. Deacon doesn't need to have a reason to divulge this shit, but, honestly, Jacob’s just awestruck that he said anything at all. If there’s anything the spy is _not,_ it’s forthcoming. About _anything,_ but especially about his past. Why he’s spouting it out now, in the middle of nowhere, entirely out of the blue - it’s weird. Not that Deacon isn’t weird anyway, but still. This is a new, unexplored and unprecedented level of weirdness that Jacob isn’t sure he can handle.

Deacon shrugs, like it’s nothing. Just giving up a secret that can get him killed - Jacob was the odd one for getting weird about it. “Figured since we’re traveling together now, you should know. Oh, and here,” those calloused hands slip into his pocket and retrieve a little scrap of paper. He holds it out and Jacob takes it without hesitation.

He’s halfway slipping it into his own pocket when he realizes that he’s got no clue how a little piece of paper has to do with Deeks being a synth. “What is it?”

“My recall code. It-”

Jacob’s legs just lock up, heart leaping into his throat. Deacon nearly runs into him, forced to grab onto Jacob’s shoulder for support. “Jesus, Fixer, what-”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ as he shoves the wretched scrap back into Deacon’s hands. They’re close enough that Jacob can see Deacon’s brows furrow beneath the sunglasses, but Jacob pulls back before he can see much more. “Not interested.” He knows what that shit can do, what the ramifications of saying a couple of words could have on a synth, at least theoretically. Horror stories of memories being wiped, people gone comatose or turned into killing machines. Stiffly, Jacob turns and continues along the rubble-lined path.

“Wait, Fixer - shit, just listen, okay?” Shit, he even sounds nervous. It takes everything Jacob has to stop when Deacon’s hand closes around his wrist. He wants to keep moving - maybe if he doesn't stop Deacon’ll just let it go. Of course he wouldn’t, even if Jacob ignored them until they reached Sanctuary, but a guy could hope. In reality, he lets Deacon turn him around, hand moving to his shoulder. 

“I just - I want you to have it. Just in case, y’know? If i start doing weird shit”

“Why not Glory or Dez or, fuck, even _Carrington_ would be a better choice.”

“F _uck_ no. _Carrington?_ You gotta be kidding me,” the incredulousness in Deacon’s voice is a soothing balm to Jacob’s increasingly frayed nerves. Still, he presses on. Deacon rarely leaves shit alone, even when it’s best left that way. S’ one of the reasons why Jacob likes the man so much. Right now, it kinda makes punching the damn spy very tempting.

“Well, now y’know how i feel. I don’t want that shit, Deacon. I don’t get why the fuck you’re trying to give it to me, but i don’t want it.” Now Deacon just looks confused, like Jacob had walked up to him in a frilly tutu and asked him to play the Prince Siegfried to his Odette. Shit, he might actually do that to the fucker just to make up for this nasty prank. Recall code his ass, even if Deeks looks more genuine than he’d ever seen him before. There was no way Deacon was giving him - Jacob, the fuckup, the guy who only survived by oversight - that power over him.

The long-suffering, achingly _authentic_ sigh from the other man cuts deep. “It’s just to make me feel better, Fixer. Truth is, i dunno if the institute’s gonna flick a switch and, you know, make me do shit. I’d rather know that the people I work with have the power to prevent that.”

“That’s the problem, Deacon. I don’t _want_ that power. Shit, you’re- you’re my _friend,_ okay?” Jacob grates it out through the glass in his teeth, waiting for Deacon to laugh. _’Friends in the wasteland, in this type of business? What a joke, you dumbass!’_ But that moment doesn’t come - one because Jacob keeps on talking, and two because Deacon almost kind of looks stunned. Jacob decides to ignore it. “And friends don’t have that type of power over friends. You’re asking shit from me that I just can’t do, man.”

“You don’t even have to read it. Actually, I’d prefer it if you didn’t. Just in case it gets stuck in your head. You know, like if I say 'radroach'. Now don't think of 'radroach'. See you thought of it.” Jacob wants to tell him that’s exactly why he doesn't want to know. It’s bad enough that he’s lugging around literal grenades in his pocket (fucking super mutants), but this too? No, that’s too much, and he isn’t afraid to tell Deacon that much.

To his surprise, Deacon lets it go without a fight. He should have known better, yet he was still surprised to find the familiar scrap of paper in his pocket in the process of bedding down for the night. They reached Sanctuary and Deacon had disappeared, as usual, and finding him now would be an exercise in futility. Deacon found Jacob, not the other way around, but he was still tempted to barge out of his house and yell until the asshole showed himself. 

He didn’t want this. Deacon knew that - evidenced by the hastily scrawled ‘sorry’ on the outside flap. The paper crumbled in his hands as he sat on the mattress, legs tangled in his pants and the dying embers of the fire in the hearth painting the room in orange and red. The temptation to toss the paper in and watch it wither and burn would have been overpowering, if not for the tingling curiosity at the base of his skull.

He wanted to read it. He didn’t want to know, but now that the possibility presented itself…

No, he wasn’t going to do this - wasn’t going to break Deacon’s trust. The guy was the only friend he had out here, besides maybe Valentine and Hancock. Though, he can’t shake the feeling that they hang around out of professional obligation or a desire to protect their town and status, respectfully. And that’s fine. Friends aren’t things that happen anymore. They were hard to make before the war, but now?

Jacob had no chance in hell, yet here Deacon was - finding him, dragging his broken pieces out of the fire and giving him a purpose. Someone to rely on, someone to trust. Jacob isn’t a sap, but he knew a good thing when he saw one. He used to hoard whatever friendships he had, carefully maintaining the ones that could stand him. This - knowing the few words that would kill them - would cross one hell of a line.

Yet… the world was different now, wasn’t it? The rules of engagement had changed. His thoughts circled around to a singular question, something that he found them doing far too often now whenever he got confused.

What would Deacon do?

He’d play it safe, cover all his bases. ‘Knowing’s half the battle’ and all that shit. The guy worked in information for a living. If their roles had been switched, Jacob was pretty certain that Deacon would read it. ‘Sides, who had the time to grab a piece of paper and read it when their friend’s trying to kill them? Considering Deacon’s skill set, Jacob wouldn’t have a chance in hell if he suddenly flipped. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to put a bullet in him even if he had time to grab a gun. Speaking was easy. Just a few words, nothing like pulling a trigger.

Besides, Deacon didn’t have to know. He could just read it then burn the damn thing, shove the information back into the dark corners of his mind and hope to never call on it. Easy, justified, and safe. The tingle on his neck turned into a persistent itch. 

Jacob’s thumb slid over the paper’s curled edges, smudging the scrawled ‘sorry’ just a fraction. It was fresh, couldn’t have been written more than a few hours ago. His mind was already decided. It was just a matter of acting on that decision, now.

He took a furtive glance at his humble abode - just a shack, really, on the outskirts of Sanctuary. There was no one around, but Deacon’s secrecy had rubbed off on him. He scooted himself backward until the wall was at his back, grounding him while hiding the paper from view. Just a peak, just long enough to see those two words and two numbers, and then into the fire. He’d never speak of it again, even if Deacon brought it up. Easy, simple, justified. He slid his thumb under the flap, smoothed out the crease, and felt his heart seize.

‘You can’t trust everyone.’

Guilt and shame and something raw and unidentifiable dropped on his shoulders like a ton of bricks. It coiled around him, icy and cloying, and he felt like screaming. Instead, he balled up the piece of paper and chucked it as hard as he could into the hearth. It burned bright for a second, red and orange flaring into yellow, sending dancing light around the room. Jacob felt like he was on fire, too, and the most frustrating part was that he didn’t know _why._

_’Of course he doesn't trust you, you just proved why he shouldn’t._

_’Why did you expect anything different, idiot?’_

_’You knew exactly what he was, he told you that much.’_

A liar and a fraud. What a fucking team they made. 

He shouldn’t feel betrayed - what the fuck was he thinking? He betrayed Deacon’s trust just like that. ‘Justified’ his _ass._ It shouldn’t hurt like this. They were partners, friends only if he was feeling dramatic. It was a prank, a practical lesson in trust at most. Deacon would probably laugh about it in the morning. There are no friends in the wasteland, and there isn’t any trust either, something that wastelanders were apparently taught at a very young age.

He never felt so out of place and incompetent, trying to hide the big piece missing from his puzzle. 

He should thank Deacon for trying, if Jacob could ever admit to reading the paper in the first place.

Shame still sat like a rock in his belly as the flames died down and Jacob finally laid down. It was a long way to Diamond City, sleep would be useful. He could sleep, just close his eyes, and not think.

Another lie - just one more to add to the pile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all feedback is cherished and re-read 10000000 times to give me the motivation to write. Stay safe out there, folks!

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is cherished! Stay safe out there!


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